I Can't Decide
by vargrimar
Summary: Spy finds himself feeling hollow after the war. He knows Sniper feels hollow, too.


He wishes it were easy to have a good time. It's difficult when the thrill of life has long since bled dry.

Nothing will ever compare to those days in the field. Days of gunsmoke, bullet shells, blood spatters, the metallic taste in his mouth and the rush of adrenaline as he slips a knife between sets of trapezius muscles in the plane of an enemy's back. If he were as susceptible to the call of the slots and cards as all the rest, he thinks, then perhaps the old vacancy in his chest would be filled. But even if he were, the house always wins.

It's amusing to think that an ex-mercenary such as himself should come into the possession of such a wealthful establishment. Its previous owner, who passed some time ago, was rather fond of referring to it as an empire. Spy is inclined to agree. "Empire" is an apt word. The house has grown and flourished with the help of ample human greed. It has expanded into a strip well over a mile long.

What's even more amusing is to see that another ex-mercenary has managed to find his way here. He's forced himself into the nightly routine of the gamblers to better satisfy the lust for the old days that Spy knows all too well. The thrill of the unknown, the hunt, the kill; the odds, the cards, the play.

The man is cool, calculating, and doesn't bother to shave as much as he should. His scar is fading, but still cuts across his high etched cheekbone and sharp nose. With thick silver-peppered sideburns and calloused hands, he skulks through crowds and sits at tables with other regulars, chips and dollars stuffed in deep pockets.

He favors cards. He can call a bluff and keep his own poker face. His gentle stoicism is admirable.

Spy admits that he's very good. It must have been those times after hours when lights out was called. Some of the team would crowd together around boxes in dim lamplight to deal. The Scotsman would bring alcohol, the others saved scraps from dinner. Currency happened to be whatever interesting things they found on the battlefield or other items they received from home. Hats were common.

From the back of the house through acrid smoke and lamp-cast shadows, Spy watches Sniper at the tables with a fan of cards in his hand. He watches him as he reads others' faces, watches him as his thick fingers brush the surface of the worn cards, and he wishes he could join. Perhaps it's for old camaraderie's sake. Perhaps it's for all the times Sniper has shot him or lunged at him, or the times Spy has crept up to him put the open mouth of a gun against the back of his skull or the edge of his knife by his throat. Perhaps it's for that fight-or-flight feeling, that rush stemming from the beating in his chest. It's been gone for so long.

Spy is pragmatic. Now is nothing like then. Even if he were to indulge in such an impulse, there would be no respawn. There would be no waking up from darkness and gasping for air under the harsh lights of the team room. It would be for the thrill of killing, the pleasure of escaping death.

Here is one man who might understand why everything feels so empty, and Spy can't imagine why one of the first thoughts he's had was of killing him.

Old habits die hard, he supposes.

The night wears through. Patrons flow in and out of the establishment as air through lungs, and Spy finds himself approaching the grizzled sniper as he begins to leave.

Seeming to sense he's being followed, Sniper turns. His face is sallow, much more drawn than Spy remembers. The yellow lamps above strew shadows beneath his eyes. "What d'you want? You're gettin' nothin' of my winnings."

Nonchalant, Spy makes a point to brush the left lapel of his dark, pressed pinstripe suit. "It has been quite a while, hasn't it?"

Sniper's eyes widen and his jaw drops just enough for Spy to see front snaggleteeth jut from beneath his lip. "It's you."

Spy nods affirmatively, pleased that there is no need to reintroduce himself.

"I... I didn't recognize you," Sniper manages. "Your face."

"Ah. The first time you've seen it, no?"

"Yeah. Without that—that thing." He gestures to his own face with his hand. "Dunno what it's called."

"A balaclava," Spy supplies.

"That, yeah." Sniper's brow furrows and he draws a step closer. He's guarded. "What're you doin' here? You never looked the gamblin' type to me. You got more outta watchin'."

"You are correct. I prefer a different type of gambling." Spy chuckles. "Being the owner of a place such as this provides plenty."

"So you're the rat that owns it." Sniper cracks a smile, though strained. "Gettin' all my money, spook."

"May I remind you that you give it willingly? I don't force you to come here and spend."

"Might be true," says Sniper. "But anything I spend goes to you."

"And anything you win comes from me, as well." Spy folds his hands over one another. "I suggest another place where we can talk more privately. Upstairs, I should think. Are you in a hurry?"

"Nah," says Sniper. "Nowhere important. Just to the van."

Ah, yes. Spy remembers it well. Dirty beige, faux leather seats, and a rusting ladder on the back. "Still driving that old jalopy?"

"It's not a jalopy." Sniper sniffs, seeming offended. "It's a good van. Served me well. Always has, still does." What Spy hears is, _Quit talking about my house._

"Of course, mon ami. I meant no disrespect." Spy turns, motioning to follow him with a flicking gesture of his index finger. "My office is this way. Shall we?"

-/-

The stairs are swathed in rich red carpet, the walls brushed with navy blue. Spy admits that it's a strange sort of homage. Those days were cruel and ruthless, but they made him feel alive.

"Fancy," says Sniper. His fingers run the length of the thick mahogany door with the gentle touch of admiration.

"Indeed it is," Spy replies. Leading Sniper inside, he reaches to his right and flips the light switch. The ceiling lamp emits a warm, calm yellow. "Close that, will you?"

Sniper complies, pulling the door shut behind him. The inner latch makes an audible _click_.

Spy draws up to his desk. It's a smooth and polished pinewood, purchased from a local carpenter. Intricate carvings of roses curl about its edges. He opens one of the top drawers and carefully pulls out a small metal case. Flipping it open with his thumb, he holds it out to Sniper.

"Ah, so you did keep it." Sniper smirks, pulling a cigarette from the left side of the case. Spy can see from the way Sniper's eyes narrow that he recognizes his old disguise kit quite clearly.

"Yes. It has its uses, even now. Call me sentimental." Spy takes a cigarette as well, snapping the case shut. He places it back in the drawer and pulls out a silver lighter from within his inner breast pocket. A press of his thumb, and flame ignites in a quiet burst of red.

He offers Sniper the first light. Sniper nods appreciatively.

The two stand and smoke in silence. Spy watches Sniper as he glances about the room, skimming the bookshelves, the knickknacks, the plush carpet, the well upholstered armchairs. He can tell that on some level, Sniper is rather impressed.

"Let me ask you something," says Spy. "What was it that first crossed your mind when you first realized it was me? Don't hesitate. I want only the truth."

Spy watches Sniper as his brow furrows. Expression hardening, scar stretching, Sniper exhales a haze of smoke and begins to stare intently at the cigarette between his fingers.

"Take out my knife," he replies. "Stick you." His voice is low, a touch above a whisper.

Spy allows a slight smile. "My first thoughts were very much the same." He takes a satisfying drag knowing that he's sown a measure of doubt, a drop of suspicion about his intentions. In spite of himself, he appreciates a mind game or two.

"So, why didn't you?" Sniper is scowling, shifting his body into a defensive posture. He anticipates violence. Spy almost wishes he could indulge. "You got that bloody knife somewhere, I know you do. You'd never give it up, no more than I'd give up my rifle." His grip on the cigarette nearly snaps it.

"Correct." Spy mashes his own cigarette into a green glass ash tray on the desk. "However, there would be little point in killing you. Not only would it be poor reputation for my establishment and even poorer etiquette on my behalf, it would be a great shame to end the life of a man who understands my predicament."

Sniper's eyes narrow. He's guarded, but it's plain that he's somewhat confused. "Predicament? What d'you mean?"

Spy starts to pace, his hands folded behind his back. "Let me enlighten you. You're an assassin. Or you were. A talented and successful assassin. It was a pleasure to watch you when I wasn't on the receiving end of that oversized gun. It's been several years since those days. You could have pursued further work, knowing you and your skills, and yet here you are, wasting away in a gambling house." He pauses, meeting Sniper's steely gaze. "Surely the end reward for our efforts was not so generous."

Sniper seems to ponder this for a moment. And then, "I got a job or two." It's short, sharp, defensive. He knows Spy is right, but he won't give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

Spy chuckles. "All right. So you work. A job or two here and there. Sloppy work for overpaying customers."

"Watch what you say, spook." Sniper's snaggleteeth are bared. The cigarette has long left his hand. It lies smouldering on the floor, wisps of smoke curling into the air.

Spy makes a noise of disapproval, his tongue pressed against his teeth. He coolly approaches Sniper and stamps out the cigarette with the flat of his shoe. "Please, don't burn my carpet. It was expensive." He picks up the filter, wrinkling his nose at the tobacco black stain. "I'll have to call Clarissa. She might be able to scrub that out."

"I'm not sloppy," says Sniper.

"Really? Your manners say otherwise." Spy drops the filter into the ash tray and stares intently at the pinewood desk. "Something is missing, isn't it?"

He knows that he catches Sniper off guard because the coiling anger in the features of his face seems to unspool.

"No need to answer," says Spy. "I already know. Not because I've read you and your body language, but because I can feel it myself." He glances at Sniper. The man's eyes are a cold, clear blue. "The world seems hollow without a purpose. I am an assassin as well. There are always contracts within my reach. I've traveled country to country and across the world, and still I'm here in this gambling house, playing puppeteer with people to get their money and cards. I'm no better than you."

Spy pulls out his butterfly knife from his right trouser pocket. He flips it open, deftly twirling it between his fingers. He can sense Sniper's muscles tense. He knows that he's watching the shining blade of the knife as it gleams under the lamplight.

"It has been a very long time since I've used this," says Spy. "Nothing feels the same. Simple marks are just that: simple. There is no thrill. Every contract is simple."

The meaning is not lost on Sniper. He seems to follow. "You don't belong here."

"No, I don't. Nothing here and now could ever compare to the complexities of those battles. It was different working with a team. Enjoyable, even. A change of pace for the man who works alone." He folds the butterfly knife shut; an elegant snap. Spy aims it in Sniper's direction, accusing. "And you agree."

Sniper's fingers have curled into tight fists. His fingernails dig into the worn leather palms of his gloves. "What if I do?"

"Then you understand that we, the both of us, have no place here."

Sniper remains silent. Spy watches him as his eyes flick to the floor and back again. Then, at last, he gives a slight, affirming nod.

"You and I, we are killers." Spy slips his knife back into his pocket. "Skills such as ours going to waste—now that is a shame, indeed."

"So, what? You're lookin' to hire? Is that what you're on about?" Sniper brushes his nose with a calloused thumb. He's getting impatient. How unusual. Then again, who said he had to be patient outside of popping heads?

"No," Spy replies, suppressing a smile. "No, not quite."

"Then what?"

Spy makes sure his steps are slow. Slow and deliberate. Nudging a lock of silver-black hair away from his forehead, he draws close, appraising the gunman before him. Sniper stands immobile, arms folded across his chest. He seems determined to keep his poker face this time.

Spy straightens his blazer. "I brought you here because I want to propose a partnership."

Sniper's eyes widen. He hadn't been expecting that. Delightful. Spy still holds all the cards in his hand.

"I would expand on the details," says Spy, "but they're still being ironed out. What I can tell you, though, is that the house will be in Ms. Clarissa's care. Robinson and the others will make due. The patrons will be as happy as ever. And the both of us will be gone."

"Will there be others?" asks Sniper. Spy hears, _Have you found them, too?_

"No," he replies.

Well, not yet.

Spy extends his right hand. "So, are you interested?"

As Sniper stares, Spy can almost see the thoughts churning inside his head: When could Sniper ever trust him? Spy builds on deception and lies; subterfuge is as deadly as his knife, sharp and quick, never seen before it strikes. Spy is a backstabbing snake, but he's intelligent and capable. Could he be telling the truth?

It's all right, Spy thinks. If he were Sniper, he probably couldn't decide, either.

"We'll be working together, then." It is not a question. Those are Sniper's terms. He wants to be sure that Spy won't sink a knife into his back in the middle of the night. Reasonable terms, Spy supposes.

"Of course," he says. The temptation will be there, but Sniper doesn't have to know. He's very good at curbing himself.

Sniper thins his lips, gazing at Spy's offered hand. "If I agree, we'll be puttin' ourselves to good use. Doin' what we do best. No tricks."

"No tricks." He means it.

Sniper's hand squeezes his, rough and thick and strong. "I want to feel that again," Sniper murmurs. "You understand. I didn't think you did."

"I understand many things," says Spy. He's feeling rather pleased with himself. "It's in my line of work."

"Right. Course it is." Sniper steps back, releasing his hand. "So, what now?"

"Now? I inform members of the house that I have pressing business elsewhere in the country and that I'm afraid I must take my leave. It could be a very long time until I return, so they'll have to take care of it for me." Spy shrugs. "Tying up loose ends may take a day or two. Paperwork. Tedious."

Sniper gives a calculating stare. "I hope those details get ironed out. I'd like to know exactly what I'm gettin' into."

"There will be plenty of ironing involved," Spy assures. "I have a few calls to make."

Sniper turns to leave. "You know where I am."

Oh, right. Yes. The van. Spy shudders to think of using that vehicle to travel. "I'll find you when everything has been taken care of," he says. Deep in his right pocket, his hand toys with the butterfly knife.

Nodding, Sniper crosses the room. The knob turns in his hand, the door swings open, and Sniper walks through.

The butterfly knife is no longer in Spy's pocket. It's out in the open, unfolded, pressed between his fingers. The blade seems to scintillate under the soft light of the lamp.

Just beyond the threshold, Sniper's back is in plain sight. Spy knows every curve, every muscle, every vertebra. Everything seems to slow as Spy aims the knife like a dart. Air stays suspended in his lungs. He can feel the push of blood through his veins, the pulse in his ears, the tightening of muscle and tendon as he channels his strength into the throw.

The whistle of the knife as it cuts through air is a melody that he has not heard in a very, very long time. It's sweet. Familiar. Spy remembers it well.

This feeling, this surge of power and adrenaline—he remembers it even better. This is what it was like. This is how he felt on the battlefield. The anticipation, the elation, the lust for blood. Everything ignites him from within.

Watching the knife sail onward, Spy smiles. He can kill gods.

-/-

Sniper shuts the door behind him. As he begins to descend the stairs into the casino below, he hears a loud _thunk_ from the other side.

Glancing back toward the thick mahogany door of Spy's office, he feels a shiver clamber down the length of his spine.


End file.
